1: Infernal Intervention

Disclaimer: Not mine by any stretch of the imagination-just nicked 'em quietly from JKR's purse when she wasn't looking, and I'll lick them clean and slip them back in at the first opportunity. Gotta claim some responsibility for the critter, though I'm not paying anyone she's bitten. She's had all her shots.

Thank Southern_Witch_69 and PlaidPooka for issuing the Makeover SexGod!Snape Challenge over at Potter_Place and for inspiring this fic. (If you like it, that is. If you don't like it, forgive them. It's not their fault I can resist everything but temptation.)

Hugs and kisses to all those who voted it into second place! Reggie loves to toss out snarky epithets whilst gazing at the Snape banner that was the prize!

Chapter 1: Infernal Intervention

When Voldemort was finally exterminated like the oversized vermin he was, it would have been difficult to find anyone in the Wizarding world who thought "good riddance" more vehemently than Severus Snape did.

That is not to say he was exactly in a position to be rejoicing. After all, there was the not inconsequential matter of killing dear old Albus. Which resulted in a trial, surprising acquittal (Dumbledore persisted in saving his arse, even from beyond the grave), followed by a monotonous existence of being haunted by guilt, roundly despised, and generally mistrusted. In other words, déjà vu.

One thing had changed, however. There was no job, teaching Potions to incurable dunderheads, awaiting him this time. Minerva McGonagall, as the new Headmistress of Hogwarts, had tried. But she was no Albus Dumbledore; neither the Board of Governors nor the Ministry was interested in giving Snape that much of a second chance based on her good word.

Fine. Bloody fantastic, even. The last thing Snape needed was another few decades inhaling the wafting fragrance of 'Eau de Overripe Teenagers' in the morning. Life could only be much better when the air wasn't redolent with angst and pheromones every day.

The only problem was... the air still was. Redolent of angst and pheromones, that is. And because he was essentially alone in his derelict home, he couldn't blame the odor on anyone but himself. Draco came by often, to be sure, but he exuded an air of abject affection and gratitude unbecoming a Malfoy, rather than anything resembling angst. And he was far too fastidious to go around sporting evidence of his latest conquest in the form of ambient fragrances. Minerva dropped in to see him once in a blue moon, but to her, angst and pheromones were just words in the dictionary.

He would like to blame Miss Granger. She came by at least once every month to pick up the potions he made for St. Mungo's. That reasonably lucrative subcontract (carefully arranged by Narcissa to obscure the actual identity of the brewer and thus circumvent lingering prejudices) kept body and soul together at least. Especially since they had been able to enlist Healer-in-Training Granger as a discreet go-between, obviating the need to pay for someone else's discretion.

He wondered how they had convinced her. Considering their mutual history, he doubted Draco had been able to win her over with charm. Had he or Narcissa made an appeal to her Gryffindor sense of fair play, perhaps? Had they taken advantage of the innate compassion that shone from those luminous, cinnamon brown eyes? Those lovely, honest eyes that never betrayed the least trace of contempt or pity when she arrived at his deplorable residence to retrieve the latest order, then stayed a while to talk intelligently and stimulatingly with a bitter, ugly (and increasingly old) man about the latest journal articles and advances in the field of medical potions, in that sweet, clear, voice of hers...

Yes, he could blame her for the unfortunately familiar aroma in the air...if he were perfectly honest with himself...for inspiring rather than importing it.

But perfect honesty on the subject was hard to come by. Whenever he began pursuing that line of thought, it inevitably resulted in profound depredations against his supply of firewhisky, followed by a halfhearted attempt at undressing (in which he might get as far as removing his shirt, if lucky). It would culminate in a blurry retreat to bed in a decidedly maudlin mood, which is where he was dozing and inwardly bemoaning his fate when a subliminal buzzing alerted him to the presence of an intruder in the house.

Evidently, old habits...as well as the corresponding reflexes...die hard. Within seconds of his wards being tripped, Severus Snape was awake and aiming his wand at...a silver weasel? Wearing... a... pink... tutu?

"What the bloody hell is this?" he snarled, although he suspected excessive alcohol consumption could well have something to do with the bizarre vision on his bedroom rug. At least he wasn't seeing two of them.

The slender creature bristled at him and began berating him in a coarse, snide voice. "Put that wand down, you greasy wanker! I'm your Fairy God-Jarvey. Regina Fletcher's the name, but call me Reggie or I'll bite your scrawny ankle. What the bloody hell did you think I was? A hyper-pileous house-elf?"

"There's no such thing as a Fairy God-Jarvey," Snape scoffed. "And you have an...advanced...vocabulary for a Jarvey, in any case."

"Clean out your fucking ears, you old tosser. I...am...your...Fairy...God...Jarvey. Journeywoman, First Class, no less. All the powers of a fairy godmother without the poncy pink wings, although the stupid tutu is mandatory when on duty. You plainly don't know shite about the International Fellowship of Fairy Godmothers and Related Do-Gooding Beings. They stopped limiting membership to female fairies about a century ago," she lectured.

"I must have missed the Daily Prophet's commemorative issue regarding that momentous decision," he remarked dryly.

"Obviously, considering my capacity as such a very special creature, I am not your garden–variety gutter mouth," the beast said, preening a little and ignoring his interruption. Rather than sporting a solid bandit's mask of color, Reggie's eyes were surrounded by thin diamonds of pewter fur against her silvery face. Paired with her glittering black eyes, it gave her expression a level of unholy mischief the Weasley twins would envy. And it was all focused on him.

"Oh gods and Merlin...what did I do to deserve this? Wait, don't answer that..." Snape groaned, trying to bury his head in the pillow. "If I'm lucky, you will turn out to be a nightmare. Or an hallucination."

Reggie scampered up on the scuffed headboard and began worrying the pillow with her teeth. "As if a fucking hallucination would trip your wards. The vibrations are really irritating, you know? Why the bleeding hell don't you stop being an ungrateful bastard, and start taking care of that damned noise?"

He peered up at the sharp-eyed creature balefully. It had a point. The hallucination hypothesis wasn't looking promising, and he couldn't very well go back to sleep with the alarm buzzing in his head. Though how the infernal beast could hear his silent alarm was beyond him at that booze-addled moment. He flicked his wand and mumbled the necessary spells to reset the wards.

Reggie uttered a sigh of relief, which turned to a frustrated growl as her quarry rolled over and tried to go back to sleep.

"No, you don't! Listen, arsewipe, you did something...I can't for the life of me imagine what...that convinced the stupid sods in management that you are worthy of our intervention. Maybe it's some sort of post-war issue, but there seem to be a lot of fairy god-thingies getting new assignments lately.

"I don't question it; I pay my union dues, collect my wages, and shift my arse wherever it's assigned. In exchange, I can tap into the amazing powers that are part and parcel of 'the Magik of Faerie.' Right now, my arse is assigned to improve your sorry excuse for a life." She looked him over critically and sniffed. "Looks like I've got my work cut out for me."

"My life would be considerably 'improved' if you would get the hell out of my bedroom, you foul-mouthed rodent," Severus retorted with a sneer. "Besides, life is as good as it gets for me. No Dark Lord, no pending criminal charges, and with the loss of my late, unlamented teaching job, no more students. Everything is just peachy."

"Your standards are too sodding low, and sarcasm won't help one damned bit," Reggie scolded.

Suddenly, her face broke into a toothy grin. If she had had fingers, she would have snapped them. "That's the ticket! We need to embark on a program of adjusting your attitude, which absolutely honks in case you weren't aware." The Jarvey circled the wizard on the rumpled quilt, eyeing him as if measuring him for a new frock coat.

"If you don't absent yourself from my rooms in sixty seconds or less, I will adjust your attitude with a few well-chosen hexes," he snarled.

"Oooh, anger management is definitely somewhere on the horizon," she simpered. "All right, wanker, perhaps attitude adjustment is a little ambitious at the moment. We'll start with something smaller, like image. Though with that nose, I'm not sure that image qualifies as the 'smaller' problem..."

"OUT!"

The Jarvey was incredibly agile. Not only did she successfully dodge everything that issued from the end of his wand, but she also managed to keep up a steady stream of persuasive patter.

"Now, now, mate, think this through. Are you quite sure there is not one damned thing more you want from life? Are you going to chuck this chance in the bin so quickly? I could do a great deal for you if you'll pull your head out of your arse long enough. Why, I could help you present a completely different face to the world...literally! A face that would ease your way through daily life. You could have a smile that would open doors more surely than that 'Alohombra'...thingy you wizards use, and any pretty little piece of tail you fancied groveling at your feet... "

Evidently this last comment scored a hit, since Snape's next volley was rather poorly aimed. Reggie squealed as she correspondingly miscalculated her dodge and had the hair neatly shaved off the tip of her tail.

"Hit a nerve, did I?" she squeaked. "Some bird in particular you fancy?"

"I have no idea what you are talking about," Snape lied smoothly. Well, pretty smoothly, considering he was still partially pickled and felt as if he'd just been punched in the solar plexus.

Reggie gave him a hard look. "Shite," she said, slowly. "You're fucking well in love already!"

It was too much for him. A tulle-wrapped fur-ball had invaded his closely guarded personal space and was now analyzing his innermost emotions, the ones he hid even from himself. The damned thing had been as unsporting as to do so when he was drunk, maudlin, and at less than optimal cognitive capacity, no less. Snape threw down his wand and rolled back into bed. A muffled moan issued from the pillow. "That's it. I give up. I realize now I didn't survive the war. This is hell, and Satan is a Jarvey in a tutu."

Reggie wasted no time pressing her advantage. She nimbly scrambled back up into the bed and scampered onto his back, bouncing from paw to paw. As Snape stiffened in shock, she growled at him. "Relax, Sir Snark-a-lot. "I'm giving you a massage. Your shoulder muscles are a bleeding Gordian Knot."

"WHAT? I don't... Oh! Ohhh... ohhh, right there... mmmmph... "

Snape was torn. He really, really needed this. He needed to relax. He needed to be...well, kneaded. But it was profoundly disturbing to feel this good beneath the paws of what was essentially a tapdancing ferret with a filthy mouth.

"That's it," she crooned, as she padded her little paws intensely over a particularly bad spot, "relax, and tell Godmum Reggie all about your troubles. We'll figure out how to win over your lady love."

"It's no use," he moaned indistinctly, his will weakened by the strangely conflicting sensations of exquisite pleasure and deep anxiety. The firewhisky probably had a hand in it as well. Was it perverted to let an animal induce such lovely sensations? "I'm too old, too ugly, and too cranky for her."

"Nah, women like older men," Reggie practically purred. "You know, experience, maturity, flatteringly pervy tendencies, all that. Does she know you well?"

He considered the question calmly, having decided he didn't care whether or not he was a pervert. This felt too damned good to tell the little fur-ball to stop now. He could always blame the alcohol. "Umm... as well as anyone does, I suppose. We converse on a regular basis."

"Then she doesn't have too large a problem with what you so euphemistically term 'cranky,'" Reg retorted, though she kept her voice soothing. "So, it's just looks, then. And really, only from the neck up. Your body's not too bloody bad, gramps, what I can see of it. Leave it to Reggie! I'll make you so handsome, women will be drawn to you like iron filings to one of those big magnets in a Muggle junkyard."

Snape wanted to make some appropriately acidic rejoinder. However, between the relaxing sensations elicited by the Jarvey's magical little paws and a wave of alcohol-assisted hope, his brain quietly surrendered to sleep.

"One last thing, mate...how do you know she objects to your bottom-of-the-barrel-mug?" Regina asked. A snore almost seismic in magnitude was the only answer she received. Sighing, she flopped onto the bed beside him and stretched. Taking a moment to study his slimy hair, ghastly complexion, and prodigious proboscis (which evidently made an excellent resonating chamber), she remarked, "Okay; damned stupid question, Reg."

Severus Snape was having a nightmare.

He couldn't move or breathe. Strong hands held him down as taunting voices hurled snide gibberish at him. He was certain he could hear Voldemort laughing maniacally, as Nagini was coming at his face. Someone was holding his mouth open so that the hideous serpent could strike at his jaw. The pain was intense.

"AAAAAAHHHHHHH!" Snape yelled as he rolled out of bed, clutching his jaw. The pain was no dream. What in the name of...

"Sorry, mate. I figured fixing those teeth would be easiest while you were still sloshed and sleeping. I guess the expression 'feeling no pain' is just a bloody expression, after all," a voice squeaked apologetically.

His blurred vision focused and came to rest on the speaker. Silver Jarvey... pink tutu... oh, no.

"It wasn't all a dream," he groaned.

"Of course not, Hippogriff-dung-for-brains. I'm here, I'm real, and I'm going to make you gorgeous," Regina said, with a grin twice as toothy as a shark's, and half as warm.

"I'd settle for you retrieving my hangover potion," he moaned pitifully, head in hands. "Blue vial, second shelf, bathroom cabinet."

He must have emptied more than one bottle from his liquor cabinet. Not even that infernal beast could single-handedly cause this much pain. "Oh, and the green vial, for pain...same shelf," he yelled, wincing at the sound of his own raised voice.

Reggie muttered something about not being a 'fucking golden retriever,' but sauntered off and returned with the appropriate vials, anyway. "Down the hatch, dog breath. Oh, speaking of mouths, why don't you wander over to the mirror and check out the progress I've made, hmm?"

"Progress?" he asked warily.

"I've started straightening those buttercup-colored travesties you call 'teeth.' Honestly, I don't know where the vampire rumors come from. No self-respecting vampire mistreats the tools of his trade like that. Here, let me whiten them a bit..."

"What? Don't point that thing at me!" he warned, dodging as the Jarvey wiggled her hips and whipped her tail in his direction.

"Damn you! Don't move next time. Now I have to fix it."

"Fix what? What have you done?" he asked in alarm, scrambling for the bathroom and a mirror.

"Wait! Wait till I undo it, you tosser..."

Snape wanted to bellow, rage, throw a tantrum that would have done a three-year-old proud, at what he saw in the mirror. But he was a little too gobsmacked at the moment. After all, with such a snow-white, gleaming head of hair, he looked far too much like his own grandfather.

Cursing vehemently, Reggie swarmed up his leg to the basin, then leapt to his shoulder. Murmuring something in a language other than profanity, she restored his jet-black locks.

Fully restored. The untidy wisps of gray that had been intruding were all gone, and the effect would have been impressive had his hairstyle been something other than 'sodden black haystack.' "Full hair repair needs to wait until after eats," the Jarvey grumbled. "I'm not tackling that disaster on an empty stomach. Now, just hold still a bit and I'll finish straightening your teeth."

"You're not getting near my mouth again...not if I've been poisoned and you've got the last bezoar on earth. They're fine. Much improved. I'm ever so grateful," Snape said. False simpering was one of his seldom-used but amazingly well-developed talents.

"Would you like a dish with which to catch that sarcasm? Seems a damned shame to let it drip all over the basin when you could bottle it and stick it somewhere," she replied nimbly.

They glared at each other mutually for a few moments. Finally the Jarvey sighed. "All right, you stubborn sod. At least they don't look like a queue what was hit on both ends by Bludgers, anymore. But you have to let me put an enchantment on your toothpaste. It won't work as well as the whitening charm, but it should improve the color from 'putty' to 'ivory.'"

Snape merely grunted at the Jarvey. His teeth were straighter. Maybe he would try the toothpaste, after all. But she blocked his hand as he reached for his toothbrush.

"After breakfast, pendejo," she insisted. "Or lunch, since it's damn near noon."

"Oh, joy. Just what I needed; a furry bilingual barm-pot to save me from myself," he quipped. It would be his luck to run across a Spanish-speaking Jarvey; why had he ever thought it wise to have a working knowledge of the romance languages?

"I appreciate the compliment to my accomplishments, hijo de puta grasosa. It's so much fun to swear in more than one language. Now, you sodden slug. I want to find out how you're abusing those poor should-be-pearlies, so I know how to best counteract it." She scampered to the door, then turned around to stare at him impatiently.

"I am not doing anything in the kitchen bare-chested," he sniffed, rigid with dignity as he began fastening buttons.

"Not even if that hot little bint you're gagging for asks you to?" Reggie queried, suggestively. Some very foul language and at least one hex followed her giggling silver form as she undulated swiftly down the stairs.

Fortunately for Severus Snape, Regina Fletcher's powers did not include an ability to talk with her mouth full. If he squinted towards the corner of the table opposite where the Jarvey was bolting chip butties, he could almost pretend she wasn't there. Unfortunately, she finished decimating her share of breakfast with alarming speed and was soon scampering all over the table, making a very audible and invasive survey of his eating and drinking habits.

"Blech! This tea is so strong, I'm surprised it hasn't swum out of the pot on its own. And do you brew the sodding coffee for a week or just over the weekend?" she asked, grimacing at the beaker.

"A little astringent for you, Reggie?" he purred, silkily. He was beginning to feel more himself. Hail, powers of caffeine. He was quite equal to cutting this nasty little rodent down to size without resorting to gratuitous jinxes.

"Alum is 'a little astringent,' arsehole. This stuff is a fucking liquid black hole. Merlin's hairy arse in a G-string, it's a wonder your face hasn't collapsed on itself. Of course, it goes a long way to explaining your teeth, your expression, and your cheery outlook on life."

"You get out of bed every morning to try teaching generations of genetic miscues on anything weaker than this, and see how far you get," he groused.

"Seeing as how you don't have to do that for a living anymore, that excuse sucks donkey cock. Look, I'll adjust your toothpaste to counteract the worst of this; but long term, you need to seriously cut back on the tall, dark, and staining beverages. Lose the booze too, while you're at it. That hangover relief potion isn't exactly a dental beauty treatment."

With a minimum of profanity (on either side), they managed to ascend the stairs and deal with the toothpaste charm. But a fully-caffeinated and minty-fresh Snape once again felt sufficiently rebellious to balk at the idea of further improvements.

"You can't do a damned thing with my hair. Don't you think I've tried for the better part of three decades? How is a trained stoat supposed to surpass a Potions master, hmmm?" He was feeling and sounding downright waspish...mainly because he hated that the Jarvey had been at least half right, and had gotten his hopes, ever so slightly, up.

Regina sighed, sagging like a limp sausage in a silvered casing. Foolishly taking this as a sign of acquiescence, Severus turned from her and prepared to shave.

The world suddenly shifted. Snape realized it had been very, very stupid to underestimate this Fletcher beast. Flitwick was small and squeaky too, but that didn't meant he couldn't jinx you into the middle of next Thursday.

Snape glared at the Jarvey with his best death-ray stare, set to 'incinerate with extreme prejudice.' Only Regina's amazing fairy powers prevented her from becoming a small, faintly steaming, furry smudge on the bathroom tile.

"This wouldn't be necessary, you colossal prick, if you'd only cooperate," she said, casually. It was really amazing how calm the creature could be, considering she had just disarmed, gagged, and forcibly restrained one of the most dangerous wizards alive beside his own bathroom sink and would, therefore, die messily once he figured out how to escape and retrieve his wand.

In her best Kindergarten teacher voice, she said, "Now, Godmum Reggie is going to take this slimy heap of stable muckings you call your hair and introduce it to lovely new friends, like my Amazing Claws of Magical Combing, patented fairy de-greasing formulas, shampoo buildup removing charms, conditioning potions, and enchanted scissors that trim away years and years of boring hairstyling! Won't that be so much fun?"

Snape was having trouble thinking of fun. The veins throbbing in his forehead were really making it hard to concentrate. They were making his face twitch unpleasantly and giving rise to such disquieting thoughts, such as, 'If I have a stroke, will the satanic rodent remove the bindings and Transfigure this sadistic barber's chair back into a towel? I'd really rather that Draco didn't find my body looking as if I died in some sort of kinky bondage situation.'

He was going to kill the Jarvey. He would kill the Jarvey. It would be ever so easy to use every Unforgivable in existence on the beast. Maybe he could make up a few new ones, for good measure. This was his incentive to survive long enough to get out of this situation.

The problem with that plan was that those little claws, which had felt so divine on his back, were positively orgasmic on his scalp. A sensation of bonelessness more complete than the results of a deboning jinx possessed his body. Muscles he never knew he had went limp with pleasure. Veins on Snape's forehead relaxed, and he concentrated his efforts on not letting too much of the redirected blood flow into one central area. Hmmmm, falling blissfully asleep sounded like a lovely idea now...

'Ohhh, Hermione! How ever did you know I liked being wrapped up in womblike, comforting bindings? I didn't even realize it, myself. This is so exquisite... the combing, washing, trickling rinse water sensually over my hair and scalp, scrubbing with those wonderful little...claws?...'

He was awakened from his lovely dream by the crash of a falling bottle. "Blimey! Did you just propose to me?" Regina squeaked incredulously. Evidently, sufficient shock could cause her profanity to fail her.

Snape's eyes quickly transitioned from closing in happy oblivion to widening in alarm. With the little range of motion available to him, he shook his head vehemently in denial.

The Jarvey breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay, that's the last of it. The scissors were amazingly restrained; they only brought your length a little bit above your shoulders. I guess you weren't entirely buggered off the pitch with your style, after all. Now, a little drying charm, and..."

Regina stopped cold. All speech, all motion, ceased utterly. She was so shocked, she failed to maintain the enchantments binding him to the chair. She was exceedingly lucky that the sensations of grooming had so thoroughly effaced Snape's ire.

Severus sighed. He was relieved to have the use of his mouth back, but he was pretty certain he knew exactly why the Jarvey had lost the use of hers. He stood, straightened to his full height, and looked down at her. His expression of contempt was as exquisite, in its own way, as the Mona Lisa's smile. If it hadn't been for that face, the sight of his hair would have been hysterically laughable

"Now do you see why I have to weight my hair down with sufficient oleaginous material to send Vesuvius sliding into the Bay of Naples?" he asked Regina, in his best 'you-are-irreparably-mentally-deficient-Mr.-Longbottom' voice.

"Bugger me with a racing broom," she breathed in awe. "It's like an afro without any curl. At least, until the ends start bowing to gravity at the top, turning it into the most heinous pompadour known to wizardkind."

Snape shook his head sadly, evoking comparisons to a plantation of black palm trees being whipped by the wind. He reached for the tub of pomade in his bathroom cabinet.

"Wait!" Reggie exclaimed. "I can fix it! Honest to fuck, I can fix it!"

"With what?" he snapped. "A Muggle weedwhacker?" He was debating whether hexing the Jarvey would be considered cruelty to animals or come under some sort of rule regarding self-defense versus a dangerous magical creature. The former would bother his conscience; as to the latter, a wizard had a right to defend himself, after all.

"Have you ever cut it very short?" she asked.

"Once. It was awful. My nose looked huge," he responded, with no irony whatsoever.

Regina scurried back up to his shoulder again. "Man, oh man, you got completamente chingado when it came to your genes, amigo. But seeing as how I am a modern fairy god-jarvey, I can tinker with those follicles until el pelo peligroso behaves itself."

It was a measure of Snape's lifelong desperation and despair regarding his hair that he did not reach for his wand (which he finally spotted on top of the medicine cabinet) with an Unforgivable on his lips, at hearing the word 'tinker' being used in connection with his follicles.

She peered through the dense overgrowth at his scalp, murmuring the incantations which would reveal his hair's miscreant cell structure. She immediately saw the problem and prepared a spell to correct it. "Yes! Sure as shite, that'll do it! By the way, mate, have you got any hair re-growth potion on hand?"

"Yes...why?"

Suddenly Snape's scalp positively vibrated with powerful magic. Just as suddenly, his head felt very, very, cold. And very, very, light. Reggie flicked her tail and employed the fairy equivalent of 'Evanesco' to remove the stiff, black pile of hair from the bathroom floor.

"I don't want to look," he muttered, avoiding the mirror as he searched for the hair re-growth potion.

"Well, your head has a lovely shape to it," Regina commented, trying to sound hopeful. She decided against making any comparisons between Snape with a naked scalp and vultures...or Nosferatu. Reg may have been ungodly cheeky, but she wasn't suicidal.

Before he had time to reflect or retort, she was helping to massage the thick goop into his scalp. Snape could feel the strange, strong fairy magic working as well as the potion.

"Just speeding up the re-growth process a little," she reassured him. "See, it's starting already. WOW! Oh, wow. Fan-fucking-TASTIC, even!" she squealed.

Severus hesitantly raised his face to the mirror. His eyes widened into two sunny-side up eggs with black yolks. Was that...was that his hair?

Yes! ...he could feel it attached, quite naturally and firmly, to his scalp. Ooh, feeling it was nice. It was...it was...soft. Even silky. And shiny, in a healthy, lustrous, very non-greasy way. It was as black as it had ever been, with the faintest hint of glowing, beetle-blue highlights. It didn't hang; it cascaded. His very thoughts were stammering because of it. It was absolutely gorgeous.

"You're preening, you daft peacock," Reg chided him, but there was a hint of admiration (and no little pride), in her voice.

If he could have mustered sufficient irritation, he would have told Reg to sod off. Who would have guessed primping could be such fun?

A familiar voice broke through Snape's happy reverie. "Severus? Severus, lad, are you home?"

He sighed. As usual, his pleasure was short-lived. "Yes, Minerva," he called. As he descended to the sitting room, he contemplated the mystery of why the woman persisted in calling a man technically old enough to have grandchildren, 'lad.' It certainly didn't imply anything flattering about her age.

When Minerva caught sight of him barefoot and in shirtsleeves, she began tsking. "Don't tell me you've been drinking again," she scolded, shaking her head as she twitched the ashes from the skirts of her robe. "Keep at it and you'll be in St. Mungo's, talking about pink unicorns."

Hmmm, Snape reflected, as he waved her onto the sofa and settled into his own favorite wingback. Pink unicorns... Jarveys in tutus. Pink unicorns... Jarveys in tutus...

"Severus? Are you all right?" she asked, beginning to look alarmed at his slightly lost expression.

He shook his head. "Sorry, Minerva, just...thinking about something. What was it you wanted?"

She pursed her lips and huffed at him. Despite his rumpled clothing, he was looking fairly well groomed. Perhaps he was using a different shampoo. "Now, you promised me that you wouldn't forget. Tonight is the ball at the Ministry. You agreed to come months ago, when I told you that my old friend Sophie Grissig would be there. She is one of the editors of Eire Elixir, that Irish Potions publication, and I'm sure she would be very interested in your research. If you make a good impression, you stand a chance of being published again," she finished cheerfully.

Minerva's sincerity was mind-boggling. No one could successfully feign enthusiasm over such a remote chance at the decidedly meager honor of being published in an obscure second-rate journal. Not that he'd had any offers better than that since it all went pear-shaped about six years back, mind...

Severus tried to frown apologetically. He would have succeeded admirably too, had he not run his fingers through his hair just then. The unaccustomed luxuriousness of the sensation caused his lips to quiver fractionally upwards at the corners. "Why, Minerva, I would be delighted to honor that promise. But sadly, my invitation seems to have been lost in the owl post," he purred contritely.

"No, it wasn't," she said, smugly. "I had it sent to me at Hogwarts, for the express purpose of preventing unfortunate accidents of that nature." She produced it with a flourish from the sleeve of her robe. "So, now you can have the delight of honoring your promise."

Snape's shoulders sagged. He was doing quite well not to put his face in his hands and groan, all things considered. Sobbing a little might be nice, too. When, oh when, would he ever learn to stop making promises? When would Minerva stop trying to rescue him from his reputation? Her constant attempts to fully reintegrate him into Wizarding society were like a series of very bad blind dates.

His slumping shoulders lit up her face like an 'Incendio' taking hold on dry grass. It was really slightly sadistic of her, Snape thought, to take so much satisfaction from his tacit admission of defeat. "That's settled, then! I will see you tonight, at seven o'clock sharp. Don't be late, my lad." She pressed the invitation into his hands and smiled like a matchmaker hearing wedding bells, before she disappeared back through the Floo.

Regina undulated down the stairs in the wake of Minerva's departure. The living streak of quicksilver flowed over to his feet and began worrying the leg of his trousers. "C'mon, u..." here she made a sound, most likely an insulting epithet, muffled to incoherency by material, "an' gig 'uddy. Im's 'astin'."

"Unmouth my clothing and enunciate, ferret face," he snarled. Sinfully silky hair could only go so far towards improving one's mood. "Bite anything that remotely constitutes an extension of me again, and you'll be a flying Fairy God-Jarvey."

She released Snape's pants leg. "Ugh, wool," she spat. "I said, 'Come on, you sorry sod, and get ready! Time's wasting.' You have a party to attend, and I'm going to have to finish your makeover with temporary glamours. We haven't got time for the full regimen needed for lasting changes, nor to get you new clothes."

He was fairly certain she had originally said something other than 'sorry sod,' but he decided to let it pass. "I am going to bathe and dress in my usual manner, suffer through exactly as many minutes as it takes for this Grissig woman to make her excuses and lose me in the crowd, and then I will make my most welcome escape through the nearest possible exit," he said, slowly and methodically, as if explaining something to a particularly thick student.

"Oh really, Snarkarse? What if your love-a-licious little bint is there, hmmm?" Reggie asked, smugly.

Severus froze. Seeing him at that moment was like watching a small animal holding preternaturally still, in hopes of avoiding a nearby threat. Even his eyes just barely glittered in the gloomy, dusty room.

She would be there. She always was. For a member of the Golden Trio to beg off one of these functions, they would need a note from a Healer at St. Mungo's assuring all and sundry that said member was in a coma and completely non-responsive. The only other acceptable excuse would have to be provided by a mortician. Did he really want to face her as his old self, when the promised transformation was within his grasp?

"What's wrong with the clothes I have?" he asked, stalling.

"Oh, I don't know. How do you say, 'Old prude with his wand up his arse,' hmmm? Let me count the ways... " Reggie clambered up to his shoulder and began counting the buttons down the front of his shirt. "One, two, three, four... "

He plucked the Jarvey from his shoulder and deposited her unceremoniously in his chair. "I can't let you change me drastically. The invitation has my name on it. I have to show up looking more or less as expected to get in," he said a little lamely.

Regina shrugged. "So, I go with you and apply the glamours once you're inside. Problem solved."

"I am NOT going to be seen in public with anyone or anything that wears a pink tutu!" he fumed. "I'll break my ankle and have the Healers at St. Mungo's make my excuses for me, first!"

She fixed him with a feral glare. "That's what you think. Snarkarella, you WILL go to the ball," she pronounced. "And I will come with you to ensure there are no casualties. Give me a little credit, Snarky-arse. I can redesign your hair at the fucking molecular level. Don't you think I can become invisible, if necessary?"

First Minerva had gotten around him, and now he was losing ground to an over-articulate house pet. If he'd had a day one quarter as bad as this when he was a spy, that would have been the 'Finite Incantatem' on his miserable existence. Which wasn't looking like such a bad idea, at the moment.

He gave her a queer look. Finally, he said, "You get an incredible amount of exercise."

Regina was puzzled. "Where the hell did that come from?" she asked.

"Well, in the short but painful time we have been acquainted, you have had more than ample strength training... pushing your luck," he said, silkily. He even used his extra dangerous silky voice, the one he saved for annoying company. And Potter.

"I suppose you stay in shape by flying off the handle," she retorted.

Snape made no reply to this as he whirled about, stomped up the stairs, and made ready for the event. But before Apparating to the Ministry, he picked Reggie up and stuffed her unceremoniously into the pocket of his frock coat. She was cut off in mid-profanity by their Disapparation, but made up for it handsomely upon arrival.

Author's Notes:

Regina's Spanish Profanities/Comments:

pendejo: general unflattering term; more or less synonymous with jerk, asshole, or perhaps git (thanks to all the folks who helped me with my spelling on this one!)

hijo de puta grasosa: son of a greasy whore

completamente chingado: completely fucked

el pelo peligroso: the dangerous hair

Three cheers for LariLee! With Samson-like strength of beta-ing, she keeps this fic from collapsing under the weight of my errors.

Up Next: Snarkarella goes to the Ball. Whatever will he wear? More importantly, what will Hermione think?